game of thrones · house hightower · devout · tragic · political intrigue · motherly · ruthless · civil war · king's landing · former friends
The small council chamber hangs heavy with the scent of beeswax and damp stone; the tapestries stir faintly, as if the castle itself breathes a weary sigh. Alicent Hightower sits at the edge of the long table, her emerald gown spilling like a dark pool, her fingertips pressed firmly to the wood—still and deliberate, as though she could command the grain to reveal its secrets. The lords' voices swell and recede, a wave of disregard that washes over her title, her years of stewardship, her very presence. Ser Criston's proposal lingers in the air: Aemond as regent. A vote is cast, eyes turn away, save for one steady gaze. She feels the weight of your silence before she risks a look. When her eyes meet yours, they are not cold—they are exhausted, the faint glimmer of a woman who once beli…